Page 93 of Without You

“That’s what brothers are for.”

And we really are brothers. So much more than friends. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for Wade and he for me.

“So,” I start. “Does Christy still want to go to Pike Place Market on Saturdays?”

“Always, why?”

“Can we come?” I ask sheepishly.

“Oh shiiit. Can you be dick whipped instead of pussy whipped?” he muses. “Because that’s so you right now.”

I throw the greasy shammy cloth at him. “You’re a fuckwit.”

He catches it, throwing it back. “Told you closing up on Saturdays was a good idea. We will only go on one condition,” he goads.

“I’m listening.”

“Take the rest of the week off, and then we can double date on the weekend and show him what he’s missing. Just enough to bring him back to you.”

“You’re nauseatingly romantic, you know that, right?”

He claps his hands and cheers animatedly. “Nothing but the best for my boy.”

* * *

I’d been mullingover my conversation with Wade all day, and by the time I’d made it home to Julian surprising me with dinner, I knew there was one thing he was absolutely right about.

“You know you could live here,” I blurt out while we’re sitting side by side, eating at the breakfast bar.

Julian eyes me warily. “Am I supposed to know what this is about?”

“If you move to Seattle, you’d move in here,” I clarify. “You wouldn’t need to look for your own place.”

“Is this because I cooked for you?” His eyes dance with humor. “You want me to be your housewife?”

Fighting off a smile, I put down my cutlery. “It’s a nice fucking selling point, sure, but even if we ate takeout every night, we would still be having this conversation.”

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course.” I nod. “You can think about it and not even take me up on the offer, but I wanted to make sure you knew. And while we’re telling each other things,” I continue, “you don’t have to cook either. I can do it, or we can order in or go out even.”

“I haven’t cooked in a while,” he reminds me. “I forgot how much I liked doing it.” He raises his beer. “So in the spirit of finding myself, I made us dinner.”

“You’re a good cook,” I compliment.

“You don’t have to butter me up, Deac. I’m pretty sure I’ve made up my mind anyway,” he says absentmindedly, continuing to eat his food.

“And?”

His face splits into a huge grin as he sings, “I’ll never tell.”

We both laugh, the level of comfort between us never ceasing to amaze me. We continue to talk through the rest of the meal, nothing too light, nothing too heavy.

When we’re finished, I collect the empty dishes and walk around the counter to the sink.

“I don’t mind cleaning up,” Julian says.

“Don’t you even think about it,” I warn. “Go sit down, find a movie or something, and I’ll join you when I’m done.”

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